by Faith Martin
Ah, Trudy thought. That might explain it. ‘Yes. We’ve been told that he and Emily liked to play Robin Hood or cowboys and Indians in the woods and what have you. Did you ever see him talking to strangers?’
‘In the Hall grounds?’ One of Sylvia’s elegantly plucked and shaped eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I think not,’ she said emphatically. ‘If anyone had been lurking around, the head gardener would have tackled him and asked him his business. And that hulking chap of his, who looks impressive enough but probably wouldn’t say boo to a goose, would help him send anyone on their way who had no business being there.’
Trudy recognised Lallie Clark from this description, and smiled slightly. ‘But the grounds are rather large, and some of them wooded. A stranger would be able to avoid notice easily enough,’ she pointed out.
‘Is that what you think? Some trespasser – a tramp or someone – actually killed the boy?’ She kept her voice down, but Trudy could sense the alarm coming from her in waves.
Just then, annoyingly, the waitress arrived with the tea things and a plate of delicious-looking scones. A small dish of clotted cream, and one of apricot and another of strawberry jam added to the temptation, and Trudy, (who’d forsaken breakfast for a quick getaway) felt her stomach rumble.
She blushed, hoping it hadn’t actually been audible.
‘Thank you. I’ll pour,’ Sylvia told the waitress, who murmured something and discreetly withdrew.
Trudy both admired and resented the cool but effortless way Sylvia talked to the girl, and wondered what this woman would do if she was ever actually forced to make her own way in the world. Would she be able to find work? Was she fit for anything, other than being Mrs de Lacey, of Briar’s Hall estate?
She abruptly reminded herself to keep her mind on business, and watched the older woman’s face as she set about pouring two cups of tea.
‘Is it such a surprising theory, Mrs de Lacey?’ she asked, fishing cautiously. She’d sensed something in the woman’s manner just before the interruption, and tried to recapture it. ‘From everything we’ve learned about Eddie so far, he doesn’t seem the sort to just accidentally tumble into a well. He was afraid of heights, for a start.’
The hand on the teapot seemed to tremble just a little, but her face, when she glanced up and across at Trudy, revealed nothing. ‘And you think that’s really significant? As a mother myself, I can tell you that children can do some surprising things, sometimes.’
‘Thank you,’ Trudy said, as the older woman pushed her cup towards her. She reached for the silver-plated sugar tongs and somewhat awkwardly managed to get two lumps into her tea.
As she stirred, she contemplated her next question with care. Instinct told her that this woman had something to offer, but she couldn’t quite get a handle on what it might be. She wished Clement hadn’t been tied up in court. She was sure he would know how to charm the information out of her. Or perhaps frighten it out of her!
‘Have you ever seen anything odd during your walks in the woods, Mrs de Lacey?’ She decided on a broader approach, not expecting anything to come of it, but she was sure that the woman paled slightly. It was hard to be sure under the artificial lighting, and her immaculate make-up didn’t help either. But she seemed more tense and alert, and Trudy felt again that tiny thrill that told her she had hit a nerve.
‘Odd in what way?’ she asked sharply, and now Trudy was sure that her witness was temporising.
‘Did you see Eddie – or maybe Emily – talking to someone you didn’t know?’ Trudy asked.
‘You’ve already asked me that, and I’ve already told you – I didn’t,’ Sylvia said calmly.
Had she? Trudy thought back. She rather thought Mrs de Lacey hadn’t said so – not in so many words. Was she just being cautious and slippery out of habit? Did she resent having to come into town and lower herself to talk to an officer of the law? Or was there more to it than that?
‘A boy has died, Mrs de Lacey,’ Trudy tried next, but apart from a certain tightness and thinning of her lips, her admonition seemed to have little effect.
‘Yes, it’s tragic. I know Martin feels very badly about it. Of course, the well has been made safe now, and there’s even talk of having it filled in, but… The family feels very bad about it, I assure you,’ Sylvia said politely. ‘Scone?’
‘No thank you,’ Trudy said primly. She couldn’t afford to split the bill, she thought resentfully. Then again, she had to tell herself not to lose control of the interview. She was allowing this woman, and her smug acceptance of her privileged lifestyle, to get to her, and it had to stop.
‘Your son seemed…’ Trudy began, and then her eyes sharpened as she noticed the older woman’s shoulder stiffen imperceptibly, ‘… to think it possible that it might not have been an accident,’ she lied blatantly, but with some confidence. Since it was clear that Oliver hadn’t told his mother about his own interview, she felt fairly safe that she wouldn’t be called to account for it if she ad-libbed somewhat.
A look of puzzlement and surprise briefly flashed across Sylvia’s face, but she managed to shrug elegantly. ‘Oliver has his own ideas, no doubt. He always has had.’ Then she smiled, a rather false smile, Trudy thought. As if she was trying to be seen to be friendly. But it didn’t sit well on her, and Trudy didn’t like feeling patronised. ‘He’s a very clever man you know – with a genius IQ,’ Sylvia swept on, with another artificial smile. ‘But… well, like a lot of great men, he isn’t always very… practical or reliable about everyday and mundane matters. He might understand what nuclear fusion is, but if his car breaks down…’ Sylvia smiled and waved a hand in the air ‘…he has to call a mechanic. He’s always thinking of such big things that the little things… well, he hasn’t a clue, really. He can be very socially unaware sometimes too. Like a lot of academics, he can be a little inattentive to things going on around him. As a result…’ she again waved her hand in the air ‘…he’s not always the best person to ask when it comes to opinions on people or everyday things.’
Trudy blinked, trying to understand what the woman was attempting to convey. Clearly, she was intimating that her son’s points of view weren’t always reliable. But why? What was she afraid of exactly? What did she suspect that her son might have already said to them?
‘I see,’ Trudy said, but actually didn’t. ‘I understand he’s contemplating marriage soon?’ She changed tack, desperate enough to throw anything into the mix and see what happened.
‘Marjorie? Yes, a lovely girl,’ Sylvia said placidly and with such evident relief at the change of subject that Trudy had to admit defeat there.
‘He spoke fondly of Emily,’ she tried next.
‘Yes. She’s rather fond of her Uncle Oliver,’ Sylvia agreed smoothly, and glanced at her watch. ‘I really must call in at Coopers before I return to the Hall. Was there anything else you wanted?’
There was – a lot more – but Trudy realised that she simply wasn’t going to get it. Not from this woman, and not now, at any rate.
With as good grace as she could muster, Trudy thanked her for her time and watched her go, feeling a sense of frustration and failure.
She sat there for some time brooding, before becoming aware of the waitress hovering at the table. ‘I hope the scones are all right, madam?’ she asked punctiliously.
Trudy jumped, then felt her heart lurch as she stared at the plate of untouched scones still sitting at the table. Oh good grief! The bill! She’d been so distracted by her failure to get Sylvia de Lacey to tell her anything, that she’d forgotten about the bill!
*
‘I could have died on the spot,’ Trudy said, two hours later, as she sat in Dr Ryder’s office, once more sipping tea.
‘So what did you do?’ Clement asked, highly entertained.
‘I blurted something about not being able to pay for it. I felt such a fool! Then I felt even more embarrassed when the waitress said that it had gone automatically onto Mrs de Lacey’s account. Apparently,
she has a running account there, and they send a bill up to the Hall every month. The rich certainly do live differently, don’t they?’ Trudy mused.
Clement, who had similar arrangements with a number of clubs, shops and restaurants in town, nodded neutrally. ‘I hope you had the good sense to eat both scones,’ was his only response.
Trudy laughed. ‘I did! And scraped clean every last morsel of jam and cream from the pots whilst I was at it!’
‘That’s my girl. So, what do you think she was hiding exactly?’
He’d listened patiently to her somewhat rambling and unsatisfactory account of her interview with Oliver’s mother, but hadn’t really been able to pinpoint the source of her angst. Which was not surprising, since she hadn’t been able to either.
‘I don’t know,’ Trudy said now, still sounding aggrieved. ‘But I swear there was something. She was very cool, and superior, and polite and all that, but once or twice, I just felt as if I’d hit a sore spot. I could just feel that something was off, but couldn’t quite track it down and take advantage of it. Once or twice, I even wondered if she might not be afraid, and desperate to hide it. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes. Well, let’s trust your instincts then, and follow up on it.’
‘You mean go and see her at home?’ Trudy asked doubtfully. It felt far too soon to her to tackle the inimical Mrs de Lacey again – especially without any fresh ammunition in their arsenal.
‘No,’ Clement said, watching the look of relief flash across her face. ‘I meant, let’s beard her son in his den. Since you seemed to think she was most sensitive when talking about him?’
Trudy nodded in confirmation.
‘All right then,’ Clement carried on. ‘We’ve seen him at home, let’s see how he reacts when we invade his place of work. Men feel most secure and comfortable where they’re in their castle. But at their place of work… Not so much. They’re always aware that their boss might be looking over their shoulder. Which, in Dr de Lacey’s case, would be the principal of his college!’
Chapter 29
St Bede’s College comprised a rambling set of buildings, built mostly in the early nineteenth century, when there was still land to be had between the Woodstock Road and Walton Street. It boasted a rather fine library, a not-quite-so-fine chapel, and three residential blocks for the students that were given various (mostly nefarious) nicknames by the successive generations of students forced to live in them.
The dons, like their students, had their rooms scattered around these domiciles, and the lodge porter was happy enough to direct them to ‘Webster’ the true name of one of the square, mock-Georgian buildings.
Finding staircase VI, they climbed to the second floor and found a door bearing Dr Oliver de Lacey’s name, plus a set of impressive initials after it. They knocked and waited, and after a while heard a voice curse and call out.
‘Go away, you numbskulls!’
Trudy’s lips twitched as she glanced at Clement, who smiled back. ‘Not the first time I’ve been called that,’ he said with mock modesty, making her giggle.
He knocked again, more firmly, and from within there came another curse, and then the door was violently thrown open. ‘The tutorial is not for—’ He broke off, his handsome face looking momentarily comical as he gaped at them.
Then the thunderous look was swept away, and was replaced by a sheepish grin instead. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was you. Er, I take it you forgot to ask me something when me met before? Come on in. I can send for a scout if you’d like some tea or coffee?’
‘No thank you, sir,’ Trudy said. She’d learned, after one of their earlier investigations concerning the death of a student, that scouts were what students and dons called the college servants, and so this time wasn’t taken aback by the phrase.
‘Well, sit down. Oh, let me remove that pile of books…’
The room was pretty much what Trudy had been expecting of an Oxford don – it was lushly decorated with expensive oriental carpets and flock wallpaper, with old-fashioned, expensive-looking chairs and a sofa littered around. Books seemed to spill over every surface, mostly congregating on a large walnut desk. Framed portraits of landscapes and luminaries (which were much more her idea of proper art!) caught the eye, and through large, sash windows, the fitful sunshine reflected off long, floor-length, dark-green velvet drapes. In a large white fireplace, a fire flickered dully, in need of a replenishment of logs or coal.
‘What a lovely room,’ Trudy said.
‘Is it?’ Oliver said, sounding genuinely surprised. For a moment he looked around, as if seeing it for the first time.
But then, having worked here for some time, Trudy mused, he probably took it all for granted and never thought about it. But her mum would be over the moon about those curtains. Again she angrily tore her thoughts away from her mother.
They took seats on the Queen Anne look-alike chairs that Oliver cleared for them, but he himself chose what was obviously his usual and far more comfortable armchair. Trudy had learned that in Oxford, you didn’t have classrooms as such, like the ones she remembered from her schooldays, but rather students – either individually or in small groups – came to a tutor’s room for a tutorial.
Remembering that Oliver de Lacey was a physicist, with some sort of speciality in nuclear energy, she wondered, with an undeniable sense of awe, what things must have been discussed in this very room. Certainly things that were well over her head.
‘So, what was it you forgot to ask?’ Oliver said, glancing, yet again, straight at Clement.
But this time, Trudy wasn’t having any of it. Her recent arguments with her own family had made her feel resentful and in no mood to take any prisoners.
‘We hadn’t forgotten anything, Dr de Lacey,’ she began sweetly. ‘It’s just that after speaking to your mother, several points were raised that we’d like to explore a little further.’
And this time there was no mistaking the reaction. In the light falling in through the ample window, it was clear to see the Oxford don definitely went pale. Not only that, his vague smile seemed to freeze in place for a moment, and when he finally shifted in his seat, his shoulders looked rigid.
‘You’ve talked to my mother? Good grief, why? She can’t possibly know anything.’
Trudy, sensing weakness, smiled even more gently. ‘Oh, I’ve found that mothers tend to know far more than anyone ever thinks they do, sir. Doing the job I do, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve arrested someone, usually some young chap or girl, who are utterly convinced that their parents couldn’t have the least idea what they’d been up to. But they invariably did. Parents, you see, are in a unique position to know their offspring inside and out.’
Opposite her, Oliver managed to give a small laugh. ‘Really, er… constable… you terrify me! What a hideous thought.’
But although he’d said it lightly, and as an obvious joke, Trudy could tell by the small beads of sweat that popped out on his forehead, that the idea had truly worried him.
Beside her, Clement was happy to see that she had the man on the back foot and was content enough to just sit and watch the show, but occasionally he let his eyes wander curiously around the room. A silk banner, hung up carelessly over a doorway, told him that this man had been a rower in his days, but the pale-blue colour of Cambridge gave him a momentary jolt. Then he recalled that, although de Lacey lived and now worked in Oxford, he had chosen to join the enemy and study for his degrees at Cambridge.
‘So, er, what was it that mother said that brought you hot-foot to my door,’ Oliver asked, the epitome of an amused man about town. He had recovered his poise now, and he watched Trudy with an idle smile on his lips. But his eyes were alert and alarmed.
Trudy, now that she was forced to be specific, found herself stymied once more. Because thinking back on her conversation with this man’s mother, she still hadn’t pinpointed exactly what it was that Sylvia de Lacey had said that intrigued her so much.
&n
bsp; Aware that he was waiting, and that she needed to retain control of the situation, Trudy cast about for something. ‘She told me that she liked to walk around the estate a lot,’ she began, and was astonished to see the colour once again fade out of his face – even more dramatically this time than before.
She sensed Clement, too, suddenly sharpen his attention, and felt a warm sense of triumph wash over her. She might have been lucky in her choice of fishing bait, but sometimes luck was what you needed most.
‘Did she?’ Oliver said, his voice sounding dry.
‘Yes, she did. Nothing surprising in that, sir, a lot of us like to walk about in the countryside, and your cousin’s estate is very pretty.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed shortly.
‘And your mother told me… well, obviously I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,’ Trudy said smoothly, again feeling proud of herself for adroitly finding just the perfect excuse not to display her real ignorance. ‘But we did talk about strangers…’ She’d been about to carry on and add something innocuous along the lines of the likelihood of Eddie Proctor running into them, but quickly changed her mind.
For at her words, Oliver gave a very slight but perceptible jerk in his chair. She hoped Clement had noticed it too, but suspected that he had. Nothing much escaped the coroner’s slightly watery grey gaze.
‘I can see you’ve noticed strangers in the village too, Dr de Lacey,’ Trudy decided to make it a statement, not a question.
For a second, they could both squarely see the momentary panic in the man’s face, and could almost hear his mind racing. What was he thinking? No doubt he was wondering what his mother had told them. But what was there that she could tell them that would cause him such alarm?
Not for the first time, Trudy wished she could have a super-power, like Superman or one of the other characters from the comic books her brother had loved to read, because given the choice, she’d opt to be a mind-reader every time!
